


The Miseducation of Abigail Hobbs

by cavaleira



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode Fix-It: s02e13 Mizumono, Family Bonding, Fluff, M/M, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Sassy Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cavaleira/pseuds/cavaleira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Murder Family stays together, and Abigail learns some valuable life lessons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Miseducation of Abigail Hobbs

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift fic for winchesterhobbs, who wanted to see the Murder Family bonding and working together. Hope you enjoy it!

_1\. kintsugi_ : _to repair with gold; the art of repairing pottery with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken_

Abigail sits on a stool at the kitchen counter in her pajamas, her bare feet dangling in the air. The neighborhood outside is quiet, imbued with the particular stillness that exists during the small hours of the night. Hannibal moves through the kitchen with an easy confidence, wearing his red sweater and silk pajama pants as elegantly as he would a three piece suit. Abigail likes watching him work, and the obvious joy Hannibal takes in cooking helps lift the somber mood that permeates the air.

Neither one of them had been able to sleep and found themselves drawn to the kitchen, traveling like veins to the heart of the house. Hannibal had offered to make a midnight snack and Abigail never turns down his cooking. It’s always delicious and she even finds the familiar taste of human meat oddly comforting when he serves it.

Tonight, he’s preparing tea and toast. Abigail would have just made a cup of chamomile, put a slice of bread in the toaster and called it a day, but Hannibal never does anything by halves. Hannibal hands her a cup of tea and she holds it tightly, a pleasant warmth against her palms. She breathes in the heady aroma and takes a sip, tasting subtle hints of ginger, cardamom, and honey.

Abigail’s gaze rests on a small, ceramic bowl in the middle of the counter, dark blue embedded with shimmering streaks of gold lacquer that branch out like dendrites. Hannibal discussed it with her last week, explaining the Japanese pottery tradition of _kintsugi_. Abigail found it fascinating and beautiful, and thought maybe she’d write a paper about it for art history. Hannibal’s been tutoring her, giving her assignments and helping her keep up with her studies. He’s maintained that she will join the real world again someday and it’s important to be prepared.

Besides teaching her about the technique in general, all he’s told her about the bowl is that he and his aunt made it together many years ago. Whatever the full story behind it is, it’s obviously meaningful to him; it’s one of the few things he’s planning to take with him. Or _was_ planning to take with him. Abigail, Will, and Hannibal were supposed to leave the country together, but now everything is up in the air. She takes another sip of tea but its gentle warmth does nothing to soothe the heavy weight of uncertainty settling in the pit of her stomach.

“Will’s not coming back, is he?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.” Hannibal’s shoulders stiffen minutely, but he doesn’t turn around to look at Abigail. His focus remains on the task at hand, stirring the apples and making sure they caramelize into the perfect golden brown.

Abigail drinks her tea and watches Hannibal in silent consideration. For as long as she’s known him, there’s always been a monster lurking beneath the surface, staring out from behind his quietly affable demeanor. She also saw it in her father’s eyes, and can make out subtle hints in Will’s eyes and her own when she stares in the mirror.

But tonight Hannibal looks different. He looks _human_ and it leaves Abigail on edge; the only thing more dangerous than a calculating monster is an emotional, irrational one.

Her dad was very methodical with his kills, but Hannibal is something else entirely. His control is masterful, as if he’s operating on a cellular level with every action. Hannibal has a plethora of reactions in reserve for almost any situation, but now he’s found himself facing something he has no frame of reference for.

Abigail has had crushes before. She’s kissed a couple boys and made out with Marissa a few times. She’s known infatuation, and she’s known the familial love she had for her parents, but she’s never been _in_ love. She suspects Hannibal hasn’t either. Well, until now anyway.

“What will happen next?”

“We leave as planned, but without Will.”

“Really?”

“Camus once said that ‘life is a sum of all your choices’. Will has simply decided that we are not part of his equation.”

Abigail could remind Hannibal that Will doesn’t even know she’s still alive, but she keeps that comment to herself. Her silence grants Hannibal the illusion of solidarity, and the desire for such a thing must be uncomfortably foreign for a man who is always so self-contained.

Hannibal spoons the apple mixture onto the toast and finishes plating with a flourish, carefully drizzling caramel across the whole concoction.

“Pain de mie with ricotta and warm balsamic-caramel apples,” Hannibal says as he picks up one of the plates and gracefully places it down before Abigail.

“It looks delicious, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Abigail.”

Abigail bites into her toast and is unable to hold back a little moan of pleasure and Hannibal smiles at her obvious enjoyment. The blend of textures and flavors is perfect; the crisp bread contrasts with the soft, sweet apples and the cool taste of ricotta keeps the sweetness from being overpowering.

Abigail watches Hannibal as they eat in silence. She wishes she could do something, could say something that would make Will’s absence less painful.

“I wish things were different. I wish things were the way they’re supposed to be.” The words are woefully inadequate, but they’re the best she can offer right now.

“As do I.” Hannibal opens his mouth to say something more, but the sound of a key turning in the front door lock gives him pause. His eyes narrow and his head tilts to the side, the predator in him rising toward the surface. A man in silk pajamas shouldn’t be able to be menacing, but Hannibal somehow manages to pull it off.

“Stay here.” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a small knife before silently walking toward the front of the house. Abigail doesn’t need to be told twice. She waits with bated breath, carefully listening for any bit of information she can glean.

Abigail hears the door open, followed by the familiar tenor of Will’s voice. Normally she’d be relieved by his presence, but tonight she remains unsettled. If it was Jack Crawford or the FBI at the door the outcome would be more straightforward, but Will’s arrival opens up too many variables. Why is he here? Did he change his mind or are FBI agents on their way? And if he _has_ changed his mind, will Hannibal let him back in or will the monster in him demand retribution?

Footsteps echo in the hallway and Abigail can finally make out their conversation as they approach the kitchen.

“I thought about what you said the whole drive home, about how we could just leave tonight and I… you were right, Hannibal. There’s nothing left for either of us here. Let’s do it, let’s go right now.”

“So you’ve decided not to betray me to Jack Crawford after all,” Hannibal says. “How very odd, Will, when you seemed so certain of your course of action before.”

All movement stops and a long pause hangs in the air until Will sighs and speaks again. “How did you know?”

“Does it matter?”

“Probably not.”

This time, Hannibal is the one who sighs. “If you must know, Freddie Lounds has a very distinctive scent. I would be impressed by your deception, had I room to feel anything more than the sting of betrayal. I suppose this is your reckoning.”

“It may have started off that way, but it wasn’t all a deception,” Will says. His voice is scratchy and he sounds exhausted. “I was so angry with you. I had a lot of time on my hands in prison and all I could think about was ruining you, breaking you, changing you. Hurting you like you hurt me.”

“How does success feel?”

Will’s bark of humorless laughter echoes in the hallway. “Hollow. I wanted revenge and I wanted it badly, but I see now that there are other things I want so much more. I didn’t think I could ever forgive you for what you did. It was strange to realize that I already had.”

“I spoke to Bella Crawford recently,” Hannibal says. “She told me that ‘there is no forgiving as a verb, as an act that you can actually execute. It simply happens to you.’ Has it truly happened to you, Will, or is this merely another lie?”

“Has it happened to _you_ , Hannibal? Will you let it?”

Hannibal says nothing and Abigail hears footsteps again as they continue their approach. Will doesn’t see her at first when he enters, Hannibal’s imposing figure blocking his line of sight. When he finally does, he stops dead in his tracks in the room’s threshold.

“Abigail?” Will gasps, his eyes widening with shock.

“Hi, Will,” Abigail says with a smile. No matter what happens, she’s glad she got to see him again. It’s been difficult, hearing him in the house sometimes and not being able to talk to him. She’s missed him, missed his kindness, his fumbling yet endearing attempts to connect with her, and the way he balances out Hannibal’s stiff propriety.

Hannibal moves to stand beside Abigail and Will starts to follow, his arms opened as if to pull her into an embrace.

“No. Stay where you are,” Hannibal says. His tone is icy and his expression is no better. Will carefully lowers his arms and does as he’s told. Abigail doesn’t dare to move either. She feels like prey who has wandered into a dangerous trap and the tension in the room is so thick she fears she might suffocate.

“A place has been made once more in the world for Abigail. A place was made for all of us. Together. Would you offer me forgiveness for this too, Will, for keeping Abigail from you?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

"I wanted to surprise you. And you... wanted to surprise me."

“Hannibal…”

"I let you in. I let you know me. I let you see me.” Hannibal’s voice is usually so controlled, but now it’s verging on shaky.

“You wanted to be seen."

"By you. A rare gift I've given you. But you didn't want it."

"Didn't I?" Will says, and the hint of desperation in his voice is unmistakeable.

“I would have given you anything.” Hannibal’s dark eyes glisten and though he smiles, there’s absolutely no joy in it. “Do you remember our conversation about God and my collection of church collapses?”

“That creation and destruction stem from the same place and God takes pleasure in both. Typhoid and swans.”

“Yes. And are you familiar with the quote, ‘belief in a cruel god makes a cruel man’?”

“Hannibal, what are you—”

“How far does your forgiveness extend, Will? Shall we find out?”

“Hannibal, _don’t_. Don’t do this.” Abigail’s gaze flits between Will and Hannibal, watching twin expressions of quiet anguish on their faces.

“I’m here. I want to go with you. The teacup doesn’t have to shatter.”

“It already has, Will.”

“It doesn’t have to stay that way.” Abigail can’t stop her hands from shaking, but her voice comes out steady and clear. She’s not that scared girl bleeding out on the floor anymore, silent and choking on her own blood. If there’s a chance for a better outcome, a chance to have a real family, she has to take it. Abigail doesn’t know what weight her words hold. Maybe they’re as insubstantial as a feather on a scale, but sometimes it’s the small things that make all the difference.

In the end, this is Hannibal’s choice to make. He has to decide if this ends in blood, severed ties, and shattered porcelain or something more beautiful because of the struggle to create it in the first place, the reverence for what was destroyed, and the care that must go into remaking it.

Hannibal’s knife makes a soft clink as he drops it on the counter.

Will is the one who takes the risk of crossing the room, taking slow but determined steps toward them even though the knife is still right there and Hannibal could easily change his mind.

He doesn’t. He stands back and lets Will wrap his arms around Abigail to pull her close, and she breathes out a shaky sigh of relief as she rests her head on his shoulder. She can feel one of Will’s arms moving to reach out behind her and then Hannibal is there, too. Abigail loses track of time as they stand there sharing an embrace that feels like hope, that feels like forgiveness. The cracks are sealing and while Abigail doesn’t know what shape the three of them will ultimately take, she’s grateful for the opportunity to find out.

 

_2\. game theory: the study of mathematical models of conflict and cooperation between intelligent rational decision-makers_

Sunlight streams through Abigail’s bedroom window in their rented flat in Florence. She fell into bed the moment they arrived from the airport and has no idea how long she slept. What little she’s seen of the apartment so far has been beautiful, the luxurious decor making it feel like an extension of Hannibal’s house in Baltimore. She’s looking forward to spending the rest of the day exploring it. That and taking a nice, long nap.

Abigail slips on a robe over her pajamas and follows the sound of deep voices to the kitchen. Hannibal is fully dressed in dark slacks, a lilac dress shirt, and a black apron as leans over a cutting board chopping up biscotti. Will looks tired, wearing a pair blue boxers and a plain white t-shirt while he sips a cup of coffee and sits at the counter to watch Hannibal cook. They both smile when they see her enter.

“Good morning, Abigail. Did you sleep well?” Will asks.

“Yeah, thanks,” Abigail says, smiling as she sits down on the stool next to Will. “I’ll probably be jet-lagged for awhile though.”

Will yawns and scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, you and me both.”

“Breakfast should be ready soon,” Hannibal says. “Would you like something to drink while you wait? There’s orange juice in the fridge.”

Abigail wonders when Hannibal had time to get orange juice or any of the food he’s preparing, but she doesn’t bother to ask. She pours herself a glass of juice and sits down next to Will again.

Their passports are out on the counter and Will flips through them absent-mindedly. Abigail doesn’t know what they’re going to do next or who they’ll be, but for now they are Hans and Nathan Taylor-Strauss, and their daughter Rachel.

“It’s good that you’re awake, Abigail. We were just discussing our future plans.”

Will frowns. “You mean you were telling me our future plans and I was telling you why they’re terrible.”

Hannibal gives Will a withering look before turning his attention back to stirring chocolate sauce for the biscotti. “Only awake for an hour and already splitting hairs. I’m impressed, Will,” he says. Will ignores him.

“Okay, tell me about this Dr Fell thing again. You want to kill this guy and his husband and assume their identities?”

“Yes.”

“So you can be a Dante expert.”

“I _am_ a Dante expert.”

Will sighs. “Fine, so you can be _recognized_ as a Dante expert. Who would Abigail be in this scenario?”

“I thought perhaps a cousin, or a niece.”

Will’s expression is thoughtful as he takes another swallow of coffee. “Yeah, that idea didn’t get better after hearing it a second time.”

“Still afraid to get your hands dirty, Will?”

“I think Randall Tier would tell you otherwise, if he were still alive.”

Hannibal laughs softly and nods in concession. “I suppose he would.”

Will and Hannibal both look a little dreamy as they stare at each other, lost in the shared memory. It’s almost romantic and Abigail rolls her eyes at them.

Abigail vividly remembers the photos she saw of happened to Randall Tier. That was the moment she realized that as dangerous as Hannibal is on his own, it pales in comparison to what he and Will could be together. She wonders what kind of monster she might become under their care.

“Look, just because I’ve killed before and can imagine myself doing it again doesn’t mean I’m suddenly on board with every murder you want to commit. I have different criteria beyond rudeness or convenience.”

Hannibal bristles. She’ll never have Will’s insight, but Abigail is getting better at reading Hannibal’s micro-expressions. She can see the rapid cycling back and forth between annoyance and delight every time Will challenges him, the way his mouth tightens in displeasure while his eyes remain bright with pleasure and amusement.

“This is a small, specific field and academia is so insular anyway,” Will says, continuing on undeterred.

“So, everyone knows everyone?” Abigail asks.

“Exactly. How long would it take for you to come across one of Dr Fell’s former TAs, or a student, or a colleague he’d met before? How would you manage to present at an academic conference without being found out? Any of those things could easily expose you. Or even, you know, a Google search. It’s not 1992,” Will says, blunt as ever. “Trust me on this, Hannibal. If there are two things I know well, they’re academia and law enforcement. You're not invincible, and there's a difference between hiding in plain sight and being reckless.”

Abigail watches quietly, finding the whole exchange both fascinating and nerve-wracking. Will is skating on the thinnest of ice, but somehow remains nimble and weightless. Anyone else would have sunk by now, drowned in the icy cold of Hannibal’s wrath. It’s almost like some bizarre version of flirting. Abigail doesn’t know the logic, the rules that govern Will and Hannibal’s relationship. Maybe there aren't any. Maybe they don't know either.

“You’re being terribly rude, Will.”

“Well, forgive me for not wanting your sense of whimsy to get us caught or killed.”

“Tell me, what would you prefer to do?”

Will pinches the bridge of his nose. “I would prefer not to have this conversation with you in my underwear.”

“Then you should have gotten dressed.” Hannibal smirks while Abigail tries not to laugh and fails miserably. The tension diffuses and a sense of calm settles over the room.

Will laughs and shakes his head. “Is this what it’s gonna be like, then? You two ganging up on me?”

“I certainly hope so,” Hannibal says, and Abigail doesn’t disagree. They’re all still trying to figure out how the pieces fit together, but moments like these make her confident that they will.

***

 

They spend the next several days tucked away in the flat, recovering from jet lag and only occasionally venturing out into the city. Will insists on laying low for the time being, wanting to make sure they fly under the radar of any authorities.

What Abigail has seen of Florence so far is breathtaking. Other than a few trips to Canada, Abigail has never travelled before and is curious to see the world. In the evenings around the fire, Hannibal tells them about all the things he wants to show them, the places he wants to take them. Abigail likes to close her eyes and get lost in the soothing cadence of Hannibal’s voice, envisioning all those locales and experiences for herself.

For the first time in years, Abigail has a shot at a real future and it’s a little overwhelming. With her dad, she was always living on borrowed time. She helped him lure those girls to their deaths in order to save herself, but the arrangement wasn’t sustainable in the long term and they both knew it. Like Will said, she was her dad’s golden ticket; eventually he was always going to cash her in.

When Abigail is not contemplating her own future, she spends her time watching Will and Hannibal. There are a lot of odd things about them, but one in particular has stood out over the past several nights. She manages to corner Will to ask him about it one evening while Hannibal is in the kitchen, engrossed in preparing dessert.

“Will, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why are you and Hannibal sleeping in separate rooms?” She knows they both are feeling raw after everything that happened in Baltimore, but the thought that things between them are so bad that they can’t even sleep in the same room worries her. And sure, they’ve been sniping at each other, but she’s always had the impression that they both enjoy it on some level.

Will’s brow furrows in confusion and when he finally gets what’s she’s asking him, he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck and looks away. “No, you’ve got it all wrong. It isn’t like that.”

Abigail raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Hannibal and I… have a connection,” Will says, a description they both know to be woefully inadequate. “But it’s not romantic.”

“So, it doesn’t bother you that our new identities are you and Hannibal as a gay couple and me as your daughter?”

“Is that what’s bothering you? Don’t worry, Abigail. No matter what’s going on with Hannibal and I, we’re going to be there for you.” Will’s hand is warm when he gives her shoulder a quick, affectionate squeeze.

While Abigail appreciates the reassurance, she doesn’t need another promise from Will that he’ll take care of her. She believes him. What worries her is the fact that this fragile peace could all fall apart if Will and Hannibal can’t figure out how to take care of each other.

***

 

Another day goes by and they venture out into the city a little more, spending the morning wandering through the Uffizi Gallery. When they return to the flat in the afternoon, they sprawl out in the study and drink fresh lemonade. Will uses the laptop to look up media reports and reads excerpts to Hannibal and Abigail. Thankfully, they’re still flying beneath the radar and though the FBI’s hunt for Will and Hannibal continues, the major media outlets are starting to lose interest in the case. With the reputable sources all examined, there’s only one popular website remaining: Tattlecrime.

Will scowls. “She’s calling us murder husbands,” he says as he closes the laptop and shoves it away. “That woman is the worst. She’s a fucking stain on humanity.”

“And yet you were willing to work with her to get to me.” Will’s expression is contrite but he says nothing, leaving them all to sit in silence. Freddie Lounds will probably be a sore point between them for some time to come.

“If you had really killed her, how would you have done it, Will?”

Will hesitates and looks over at Abigail.

“You don’t have to protect me from this, Will. I’m not innocent and we all know it,” Abigail says, and it feels so good to finally let it out. “I’ve thought about killing Freddie, too. She lied to me. She said she wanted to help me tell my story, but all she really wanted was to trick me into revealing my secret.”

“Yes, how very rude of her,” Hannibal says. “But Will, you still have not answered my question and I’m very curious to hear your answer. I’m sure Abigail is as well.”

“If I’d really done it, I still would have set her on fire in the end. But the build up would have been slower. Messier. I wanted her blood on my hands. I wanted to make her suffer.” Will’s voice is low and utterly controlled, as if he can see it all perfectly in his head and is simply relaying it back to them.

“When I found her on my property, there was a moment where I almost gave in. I could have lied to Jack and covered it up. It would have been so easy. God, and the look on your face when you thought I’d done it, Hannibal. It was like I could feel everything you were feeling and it was joyous. It felt good.”

“It felt right,” Abigail says.

Will bows his head. “Yes, it did. But it shouldn’t have. Freddie always said I was a killer. She’s scum, but she’s not wrong about me.”

“Maybe she’s not wrong,” Hannibal concedes. “But that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”

Will stands and starts pacing, his agitation palpable in the small space. “How can you say that? How can you honestly believe that?”

“Your morality still haunts you, Will. Perhaps it’s time for you to give up the ghost.”

Will stops and glares at Hannibal. “You know something? You're terrible. And we're terrible together.”

“I know.” Hannibal smiles with all his teeth, and Abigail doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so smug or so delighted.

Will sighs as most of the fight goes out of him. He breathes out a huff of bitter laughter and shakes his head. “God, we’re going to ruin Abigail.”

“On the contrary, dear Will. ‘The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.’ I think it’s safe to say that you and I think quite differently than most other people.”

“Nietzsche,” Abigail chimes in, and Hannibal looks at her with pride.

“What the fuck, Hannibal. Did you teach her Nietzsche? What am I saying, of course you did.” Will leans up against one of the bookcases and sighs. “I’m sorry, Abigail. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Don’t. Just… stop apologizing to me for being honest, okay?” Abigail says because she’s been hungering for this conversation and more like it. It’s such a relief to be able to say how she really feels, to not have to pretend. “I know it’s not easy, but we’re all here because this is where we want to be.”

“You should listen to Abigail, Will. She is wise beyond her years,” Hannibal says as he gets to his feet. “I should go prepare dinner.”

Before he leaves, he pauses in front of Will and reaches out to clasp his shoulder. The touch lingers on beyond what would be considered normal, and they stand in silence, staring at each other intently. Will swallows hard and looks away, and Hannibal’s shoulders slump almost imperceptibly. When he turns and heads toward the kitchen, Will watches him go with something like longing in his eyes.

***

 

Abigail can’t breathe. All she can feel is the burn of cold steel across her throat, and she can’t breathe. She is falling. She’s drowning in her own blood, but this time Hannibal and Will aren’t there to save her. There is only her father, blood on his hands and sadness in his eyes as he watches the life drain out of her.

Abigail awakes with a start, gasping and struggling for air. She does her best to stop trembling, willing her racing heart to slow down and tense muscles to soften. It was just a dream, one that always leaves her shaken no matter how many times she has it.

She takes several deep breaths, the way both Hannibal and Alana taught her, and tries to fall asleep again. After suffering through a half an hour of tossing and turning, she decides to give up on sleep for now and climbs out of bed. With silent steps, she makes her way toward the kitchen to make warm milk with cinnamon. Her mom used to make it for her when she was a kid, and she’s always found it comforting. It might not help soothe her nightmares tonight, but it definitely won’t hurt.

When she’s about the pass by the study, Abigail pauses at the sound of voices. Apparently, she’s not the only one who’s still up.

She can spot Will through the sliver of the cracked door, his dark halo of hair shining in the firelight. His eyes are bloodshot and he looks exhausted. Was he plagued by nightmares too? Was Hannibal? Hannibal seems more the type to cause nightmares than to have them, but there’s still so much about him she doesn’t know.

Abigail pauses there in the hallway, wondering if she should join them or continue on her way. It might be nice to sit by the fire with them, to have solace and warmth after her nightmare.

“You know, Abigail thought we were a couple,” Will says, and the decision is made for her. She goes utterly still, the way her father taught her to when they went hunting. While she probably shouldn’t be overhearing this conversation, she doesn’t dare move. They’ve been building up to this for awhile and Abigail doesn’t want to be the interruption that ruins the moment.

“What would you call us then?”

Will snorts. “I don’t think there’s a word for what we are to each other.”

“Does there need to be?”

“Maybe not.”

“I suppose it’s fitting. You are unquantifiable, Will. I’ll never be able to completely predict you, but it’s a challenge I’d gladly attempt for the rest of my life.”

Will opens his mouth, but no words come out. He’s speechless for several moments, unsure of how to respond to what was essentially a marriage proposal. Abigail doesn’t blame him; she has no idea how she would react in the same situation.

“Are sex and romance a condition of this?”

“Of course not. But they are not unwelcome.”

Will sighs and places his head in his hands for a moment before looking over in Hannibal’s direction again. “I don’t know if I can be what you want me to be.”

“I don’t want you to be anything other than what you are, Will. I have never seen anything as beautiful as your mind, the turns it takes, the singular unpredictability of you. You are so wonderfully alive and you were breathtaking, even in your betrayal.”

Will takes a long sip of whiskey, his face scrunching up from the burn of liquor sliding down his throat.

“You know, sometimes I’ve thought of our relationship as a mutually-unspoken pact to ignore the worst in one another in order to continue enjoying the best,” Will says. “But I realized you don’t want to ignore the worst. You revel in it. You think it’s beautiful, even when it has the potential to tear you apart. You see me, all of me.” A thread of incredulity lingers in his voice, as if he still can’t quite believe this is something he can have.

“You see me, too.”

“I do, and I enjoy you at your best, Hannibal. But I also… I’m also drawn to you at your worst. I don’t want to ignore it. I want to embrace it, and that terrifies me.”

“‘Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.’”

Abigail wonders who he’s quoting, but Will doesn’t ask and Hannibal doesn’t volunteer. Several more moments of silence pass between them, punctuated only by the crackling fire. Will takes a deep breath and there’s determined set to his jaw as he stands up and moves forward, disappearing from Abigail’s line of sight. All she can hear is the steady sound of his footsteps.

“Will, what are you doing?”

Abigail is worried for a second that Will might attack Hannibal, but there is no scuffle, only the soft sound of lips pressing together followed by heavy breathing.

“My dear boy, always determined to surprise me.” Hannibal’s voice is thick with emotion and almost unbearably tender.

Abigail smiles and slips away back to her room. She doesn’t need the milk. The thought that things could actually work out for all of them is enough to keep her warm.

***

 

In the morning, Abigail catches Will coming out of Hannibal’s room. He gives her a sheepish smile and she laughs softly as they follow the heavenly smell of breakfast into the kitchen.

***

 

When evening comes, Hannibal insists that they all go out and celebrate. He takes them to a beautiful restaurant in the heart of the city and orders a bottle of merlot for the table once they’re seated. When he pours them each a glass, the wine glistens like blood in the candle light.

“We should have a toast,” Abigail says. Will and Hannibal look both surprised and pleased by her suggestion.

“And what shall we toast to, Abigail?” Hannibal asks.

“Family.”

“To family,” Will and Hannibal say in unison as they smile at Abigail. They all clink glasses, and Abigail smiles into her wine glass as she takes a sip and breathes in the heady scent.

The restaurant is beautiful and the wine is good, but the service is slow, especially for an establishment of this quality. Abigail can tell that Hannibal is growing more annoyed with their waiter as the night goes on. It’s their first dinner out as a family and he wanted it to be perfect.

They run into a problem when the entrees come out and Will is presented with the wrong dish.

“Pardon me, but my husband didn’t order this,” Hannibal says as he gestures to the chicken dish in front of Will. “He ordered the porchetta.”

“Oh, I apologize, signore. The chef must have read your order wrong.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “Did he? Or did you write it down incorrectly? It’s impolite to pass your mistakes off as someone else’s.”

The waiter nods apologetically, but when he walks away, Abigail hears him mutter a few things in Italian under his breath. She doesn’t understand what any of it means, but Hannibal’s eyes darken and his mouth curls in displeasure.

“What did he say?” Abigail asks.

“Some very rude things about our family and my relationship with Will.”

The three of them exchange a dark look full of the cold calculation they all share, the penchant for violence that hovers just beneath the surface. They are wolves in sheep’s clothing. This man has no idea who he's dealing with and Abigail almost feels sorry for him.

When the waiter passes by again, Hannibal beckons him near. He speaks to the man calmly in flawless Italian, and the waiter’s face flushes red as he grows more and more mortified with every word. The man darts off to the kitchen and Abigail barely manages to refrain from laughing.

A couple minutes later, the owner comes out with a bottle of wine and profuse apologies. “I am so sorry, signore. I don’t tolerate such behavior among my staff, I assure you he'll be dealt with.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

“The chef is preparing the correct dish for you now,” the owner tells Will.

“You see, Will?” Hannibal says. “You’ll be eating pig in no time.” Will pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Abigail stifles laughter behind her hand, and Hannibal looks terribly pleased with himself, eyes dancing in amusement.

“Again, I must apologize, please accept this bottle of wine on the house,” the man says as he opens the bottle and sets it down on the table. “I hope you all enjoy the rest of your meal. You have a beautiful family, signore.”

Hannibal’s gaze is fond as he looks at Will and Abigail. “I most certainly do.”

 

 _3\. consonance_ : _a harmonic combination that is stable, usually in thirds_

With brisk steps, Abigail weaves through the hustle and bustle of the Firenze Campo di Marte train station. The wheels of her rolling suitcase clack against the ground, another chord in the cacophony of sound around her.

The three hour train ride was uneventful. She spent most of it curled up in her seat, drifting in and out of sleep. It was a good school year, her second one at the American university she attends in Rome. Choosing a university had been a tough decision. Abigail wanted to stay in Italy and though her Italian was pretty good, it wasn’t quite good enough to do a full degree program in that language. With Will and Hannibal’s help, she was able to find somewhere that offered the best of both worlds.

The late afternoon sun is warm against her skin as she exits the terminal. As much as she likes her school and her friends in Rome, it feels good to be home. She’s already looking forward to a home cooked meal and she wonders what delicious concoction Hannibal will be making for dinner. Abigail grins when she spots a dark blue Fiat and a familiar head of curly dark hair in the passenger seat. Will grins back and waves when he sees her approach.

The trunk pops open when she reaches the car and she quickly puts her bags inside. After she opens the door and climbs into the backseat, she’s greeted with enthusiastic kisses from Sabbia, named for her sandy colored coat. She’s Abigail’s favorite of their four dogs, and Abigail appreciates Will bringing her along as part of the welcoming party. The other dogs will probably be jealous when they get back, but Abigail will be sure to shower them with affection, too.

There are smiles and greetings all around, a kiss on the cheek from Hannibal and a hug from Will, made slightly awkward because of the way they’re positioned in the car. Hannibal turns the car on and maneuvers out into the flow of traffic, driving them past the city center and football stadium and out into the verdant greenery of the countryside. Abigail settles back in her seat and enjoys familiar scenery speeding by. It will take them at least an hour to make it home to the vineyard.

“What’s been going on with you two?” Abigail asks as she strokes fingers through Sabbia’s soft fur.

“The harvest is still a few months off, but I anticipate it being a good one. I’m sure it will be very fruitful indeed.”

Will groans and he and Abigail exchange a look, their eyes meeting in the rearview mirror. There’s no need to look at Hannibal because they can both easily envision the pleased smirk on his face. Hannibal’s love of puns is something they’ve learned to live with.

Hannibal continues his update, something about canopy management techniques and cold stabilization. Abigail doesn’t understand half of what he’s saying, but she nods and listens anyway. The vineyard is Hannibal’s baby, and she wants to be supportive.

“Also, Will’s publisher has set a release date for his next novel.”

Abigail grins. “That’s great, congratulations!”

As detrimental as Will’s work with the FBI was to his mental health, there were aspects of it he missed. Will often saw his empathy as more of a curse than a gift, but it was still an essential part of him, a muscle that needed to be stretched, a beast that needed to be fed.

Hannibal suggested he take up writing and now Will—or rather Sam Davies—has a successful series of crime thrillers, praised for their inventive crime scenes and rich, complex characters. Hannibal loves giving his input and though Will is often receptive to it, there’s been more than one instance of him saying, “write your own fucking novel” and shutting his office door in Hannibal’s face.

The rest of the ride passes in comfortable silence. Abigail feels lighter with every mile that flies by, taking her closer to home, the only place where she can truly be herself. No using makeup or scarves to hide her neck scar or self-consciously covering her missing ear with her hair. Seeing the place where her ear used to be was difficult for Will at first, when he was still working through the worst of his anger over Hannibal’s actions. But even then, he always made it clear that she had no reason to feel ashamed and that his anger wasn’t directed at her. He never made her feel like she was deformed or a freak, and she’s grateful for it.

They drive past row upon row of grapevines until they reach the villa itself at the top of the hill, its beautiful, pale stone facade seeming to glow in the sunlight.

The other three dogs swarm her when they she enters the house, tails thumping and wagging with excitement. Abigail laughs as she leans down to pet them all, and Will watches the scene unfold with fondness in his eyes. “It’s good to have you home, Abigail.”

“Why don’t you go unpack and relax? I will be finished preparing dinner in about two hours. Then we can enjoy the meal and discuss our hunting trip,” Hannibal’s eyes dance with mirth and a small, wicked smile curves his lips. Abigail smiles back as she heads off to follow his suggestion.

***

 

They have coq au vin for dinner, the meat so tender it nearly melts in Abigail’s mouth. For dessert, Hannibal presents them with miniature flourless chocolate cakes topped with fresh whipped cream and brandied cherries. Conversation flows easy like wine as they enjoy the meal and each other’s company.

After dinner, they retire to the study and sit by the fire. Hannibal and Abigail each have a glass of wine and Will sips at his whiskey while the dogs huddle warm and sleepy at their feet. The dark, rich color palette, towering bookcases, and leather furniture all give the study an old world charm that reminds her of Hannibal’s office in Baltimore. From time to time, Abigail wonders whatever happened to that room and all the other places they used to inhabit, but she doesn’t dwell on it. She has a new life now, and everything she needs is right here.

“Anyone to add, Abigail?” Hannibal asks once he’s retrieved his rolodex and begun flipping through the cards.

Abigail shakes her head. “No, not since the last time I saw you.”

Now that the family hunting trip is upon them, it’s time to decide on their quarry. They go twice a year, once in the summer and again in the winter, right before the new year. In the preceding months they collect names, filling Hannibal’s rolodex with an ever-increasing pool of candidates. The rude waiter who disrupted their first real dinner as a family was the first. There have been several others since then.

The rule is that they all have to agree on a victim. In the end, the final decision usually falls to Will. His moral code is the least flexible of the three of them and when he kills, it stems from a place of righteous fury, a desire to exact retribution for past injustices. The menu choice for their celebratory meal, however, is always up to Hannibal.

“I think we all know who we’re going to pick this time. It’s pretty obvious,” Abigail says.

“Charlie’s former owner?” Hannibal asks, and Abigail nods.

Will pets Charlie, scratching his ears and running his fingers through the dog’s dark coat. It’s smooth and lustrous now, a huge improvement from the dirty, matted mess it used to be. Charlie rests his head on Will’s thigh and gazes up at him with obvious adoration. He has taken well to being a member of Will’s pack, already flourishing under Will’s kind but firm manner.

“It seems that Abigail and I both agree. Will?”

“Yes,” Will says with no hesitation and no mercy.

They found Charlie during a trip through the countryside when Abigail was home for a weekend over Spring Break. After witnessing the poor dog cowering in fear as his owner kicked him, Will had been livid enough to give the man a piece of his mind. Unfortunately for the man, he was rudely unappreciative of Will’s comments.

Later that day, Will and Abigail came back and rescued the dog while Hannibal dug up more information on the man so he could be added to the rolodex and dealt with when the time was right. By unanimous decision, that time is now and Abigail is looking forward to it. While the man’s cruelty to the dog was bad enough, his rudeness toward Will pushed him over into unforgivable territory. She has no doubt Hannibal feels the same.

“Very good,” Hannibal says, obviously pleased with the outcome of their conversation. “We can begin working out the logistics of our hunt tomorrow.”

“That reminds me, Hannibal and I have a gift for you,” Will says, gently pulling away from Charlie and getting to his feet. He opens one of Hannibal’s desk drawers, pulls out a medium-sized black box, and hands it to Abigail. The box is adorned with a dark red ribbon and a tag with Abigail’s name written in Hannibal’s elegant script.

“Congratulations on completing another year of university, my dear,” Hannibal says, and the affectionate pride in his tone warms Abigail down to her very bones.

Abigail tugs the ribbon loose and opens the box to find one of the most beautiful hunting knives she’s ever seen. The sheath has been designed to look like a feather, curved gray steel lined with golden embellishments. She unfolds knife from its sheath, her gaze traveling along the curve of its razor sharp blade. The knife feels right in her hand, sturdy and well-made yet possessing a deadly grace.

“It’s perfect, thank you.” Abigail grins so wide her cheeks hurt, and Will and Hannibal offer her warm smiles in return.

“Happy hunting, Abigail,” Will says.

Abigail watches the blade shimmer in the firelight and thinks of how beautifully it will shine when coated red with blood.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Belief in a cruel god makes a cruel man" is a Thomas Paine quote and “Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood” is Marie Curie.
> 
> Also, this is what Abigail's knife is based on, if you're curious: http://www.amazon.com/Knife-King-Damascus-Handmade-Folding/dp/B007RN6OZS/ref=pd_sim_200_1?ie=UTF8&dpID=516z-%2BF146L&dpSrc=sims&preST=_AC_UL160_SR160%2C160_&refRID=1AKWVE9HPEFBTW46VY6Q


End file.
